Murder in Plain Sight

“But about the crime.” The lawyer sounded a little desperate, and he noticed that she hadn’t written anything on her yellow pad. “I need to know—”

“Thomas Esch is accused of the beating death of a young woman named Cherry Wilson,” he said bluntly. He might consider that Thomas was guilty as sin, but the boy deserved a defense attorney whose mind wasn’t muddled by roses and rhubarb. “Thomas was found near her body, unconscious, in a remote barn where they’d apparently been partying. The hammer that was used to kill her was in his hand.”

“Trey, dear, you don’t need to be so graphic.” His mother’s face crinkled in distress. “I’m sure Thomas didn’t—”

Impelled by the probably futile need to protect her, he crossed the room, bending over to take his mother’s hands. “I know you don’t want to believe it, Mom. But you have to face the truth. He’s guilty, and if you become involved in trying to get him off, your friends and neighbors won’t thank you. Please, just drop this.”

His fingers tightened on hers, and he felt the wedding ring she’d never removed since the day his father put it on her finger forty years ago. A spasm of pain shot through him. Dad ought to be here now. He’d always protected her.

It had been over a year, and Trey still hadn’t stopped wanting to talk things over with his father. Maybe he never would.

“I can’t forget about doing what’s right just because the neighbors might disapprove,” his mother said, with that odd little dignity that could crop up now and then when she felt strongly about something.

“This isn’t a matter of belief,” he said, sure it was useless and hating that they were having this conversation under Jessica Langdon’s cool, critical eyes. “It’s a matter of facts. Evidence.”

Mom freed her hand so that she could pat his cheek. “Dear Trey. You’re just like your father. Always acting on reason, never on instinct.”

He stiffened. “Dad had very good judgment.” And acting on reason wasn’t a fault.

“I’m not criticizing him, Trey. I’m just saying that sometimes you have to listen to your heart, not your head.”

He straightened, trying not to give an exasperated sigh. Arguing with his mother was like…like boxing with a bumblebee, and about as effective.

The Langdon woman slid the cap back on her pen, apparently giving up on getting any useful information out of them. Three small lines appeared between her eyebrows.

“I really need to talk to the client before I make any recommendations. But if the physical evidence is very strong, we may need to think about a plea bargain. Will the district attorney…”

“Oh, no,” his mother said. “You mustn’t do that. Why, that’s what Bobby wanted to do right away when I talked to him, and I just won’t hear of any such thing.”

“Bobby?” Jessica’s frown deepened.

“Robert Stephens. He’s our financial manager,” Trey explained, his gaze fixed on his mother. “Are you telling me you talked to Bobby about this and not to me?”

“Well, I knew you wouldn’t approve.” His mother looked as guileless as a kitten. “So I just thought I’d talk to Bobby first. He’s always so accommodating, but this time I had to practically force him to do as I asked. I finally threatened to call Eva Henderson myself if he didn’t take care of it, so he did.”

Did that mean that she had gone to Bobby Stephens on other occasions, instead of turning to him? Trey’s temples began to throb. His father had expected him to take care of his mother—that was a given. But maybe it would have been helpful if he’d left behind some written instructions.

“Anyway, Bobby finally did what I wanted and hired a topflight Philadelphia lawyer to look after poor Thomas,” his mother said. She clasped Jessica’s hand suddenly, looking at her with that melting, elusive charm which had all sorts of people lining up to do as Geneva wanted. “You will handle this for us, won’t you, Jessica? I just know you’ll be brilliant.”

The woman was succumbing. He could see it in her face. Then she sat up a little straighter, clutching her legal pad as if it were a shield.

“I’d better speak to the young man before doing anything else.” She rose. “If you’ll just give me directions—”

“Of course, of course.” His mother glanced at him. “But there’s no need for directions. Trey will be delighted to take you.”

JESSICA SUCKED IN a breath, trying to think of a polite way to say she’d rather walk. But she wouldn’t need to say anything, surely. Trey Morgan had made his feelings only too clear. He wouldn’t touch this situation with a ten-foot pole.

“Mom,” he began, looking harassed.

Geneva swung on him. “Blake Winston Morgan, don’t you dare argue.”

He lifted both hands. “I’m not.” He turned to her. “If you’re ready now, we’d better get into Lancaster before the traffic gets bad.”

She doubted Lancaster traffic would bother her. “There’s no need for you to accompany me. I’m sure I can find the county jail without help.”

He took her elbow and piloted her toward the door. “Trust me, if you want to see Thomas and get back to the city today, don’t start an argument with my mother.”

She waited until they were out on the porch and presumably out of earshot before she spoke. “I know you don’t want to be involved in this—”

“If my mother’s involved, I am.” His tone was curt. He nodded toward a dark green pickup. “I’ll drive you. It’ll be easier than giving directions. You can pick up your car afterward and head back. It’s not out of your way.”

Obviously the sooner she left Lancaster County, the happier he was going to be. Still, what he said made a certain amount of sense, and maybe she could get some information about the case from him on the way. She hated going into a situation blind.

She climbed into the high seat, trying to pull her skirt down at the same time. This suit was definitely not made for riding in pickup trucks. Come to think of it, she’d never been in a pickup before in her life.

She eyed Blake as he swung easily into the seat and started the vehicle. “So, do you prefer that I call you Mr. Morgan, or Blake or Trey?”

His jaw tightened. “Trey.” He bit off the word.

“I take it you don’t agree with your mother that Thomas Esch is innocent.” She knew the answer to that, but she wanted to hear him articulate his reasons.

“I think he’s guilty as sin.”

“Why?”

The tight jaw was very much in evidence. “Do you know anything about the Amish?”

She scoured her memory. “I think I saw that movie with Harrison Ford once.”

“Great.” It was almost a snarl. “Well, to condense a lot of culture into a brief summation, Counselor, the Amish believe in living apart from the world. That means no electricity, no television, no movies or video games or all the other things kids take for granted. They don’t believe in going to the law. They settle problems with the help of the church, not the courts. They even have their own language, a Low German dialect, although the kids learn English in school.”

She thought briefly of the accented English of the young couple in the buggy. “Fascinating, but what does it have to do with the case?”

“Everything. You can’t possibly defend Thomas if you don’t understand what he comes from. Amish kids live a sheltered life, but in their late teens, they’re allowed more freedom. They’re supposed to be socializing with each other with a view to finding a mate, but plenty of them want a taste of the outside world before making the decision to be baptized into the Amish church and give it up forever. That period of running around is called rumspringa. That’s what Thomas was doing when he got involved with Cherry Wilson.”

She pondered that explanation, trying to fit it into a possible defense. “How old is Thomas?”

“Nineteen. But a young nineteen in the ways of the world.”

“And the woman—Cherry Wilson, you said?”

His lips moved in an expression of distaste. “Cherry was in her mid-twenties. Had a reputation of liking to party. She worked as a waitress at the inn in Springville. You probably passed it on your way to the house.”

She hadn’t, since she’d gotten lost instead. “What was she doing alone in a barn with a nineteen-year-old? She sounds a bit old for teen parties.”

“Rumor has it she got a kick out of partying with younger kids. I don’t know how she hooked up with Thomas.” He frowned a little, as if getting past his initial distaste to actually think about the case. “That is odd. The Esch family has a farm not far from our place. A close family, I’d say. Thomas always seemed a bit shy, but maybe that made his reaction all the worse.”

“What do you mean?” She didn’t like the idea that he was taking it for granted that her client was guilty. He seemed a reasonably intelligent man, behind the slightly tyrannical attitude of his. If he thought the boy guilty…

Well, her job was to provide the best defense she could, regardless. Since she’d taken the position with Henderson, Dawes and Henderson, she’d certainly defended clients who’d have been the better for a guilty plea. Things had been a lot clearer, in a way, when she’d been a prosecutor.

Trey’s forehead knotted, and his hands moved restlessly on the steering wheel. “Take a kid like that—inexperienced, shy—and put him in a situation where he’d been drinking with a woman who led him on. He might, I guess, get carried away, not knowing what he was doing.”

“Carried away enough to batter her with a hammer? It still seems out of character for the person your mother described.”

His frown lingered. “Maybe. It’s hard to say what happened. All we have are the facts, and they don’t look good for Thomas.”

No, they didn’t. If she ended up trying to plea-bargain the case, Geneva would be disappointed in her. She’d be disappointed in herself, for that matter, but she’d do what was best for the client.

“When did this happen?”

“They were found in the early hours of Sunday morning in a barn outside of town.” Trey negotiated the narrow streets of Lancaster with ease. “Thomas was passed out, drunk. Cherry had apparently been dead for several hours, if the rumors are true, and they usually are.”

“He’s been in custody over twenty-four hours?” Her voice rose. “Without an attorney?”

“Relax, Counselor,” he said. “A local attorney has been handling the situation, basically advising the boy to say nothing. The local man doesn’t want to continue with the case, though.”

Trey sounded as if he didn’t blame the man.

In fact, if Trey was right, the entire community was convinced of the boy’s guilt. Everyone, apparently, except Geneva Morgan.

A random thought popped into her mind. The newspaper piece she’d read—

“Your mother tried to speak with Thomas when he was being taken into the police station, didn’t she?”

She could almost hear his teeth grinding.

“Yes. She did. Except that it was when he was being taken to the county jail. The newspaper got that wrong. Fortunately they didn’t get her name, either.” He clamped his lips shut on the words.

It didn’t take a genius to figure out that Trey was worried about his mother. She’d give him credit for that, although she wasn’t convinced Geneva needed all that protection.

Jessica subsided, staring out the window at the fields on both sides of the road, lush and green. White farmhouses sat well back from the road, as if to protect their privacy. Here and there she spotted people working in the fields, looking like figures in a landscape painting.

“Amish,” Trey said, nodding at one farmhouse. “You can tell because no power lines go to the house.”

“No electricity.” She tried to imagine it. “What about phones?”

Trey’s shoulders moved in a shrug. “Not in the house. Often there’s a phone shanty at the edge of the field, so they can use a phone for business or in an emergency.”

This was the life her client had led. She tried to reconcile it with drunken parties and found she couldn’t.

Springville appeared—a collection of shops and a few restaurants facing the road, with residential areas spread out behind them. She took a second look at the Springville Inn, where the dead woman had worked. A visit to talk with her coworkers might be in order.

Then they were in the countryside again. Neat farms, neat houses, twin silos flanking barns, contented-looking cows grazing in fields…it was like something off a calendar.

The truck overtook a gray horse-drawn buggy. Trey passed with care, raising a hand to the driver. The bearded man nodded, face impassive, and the two towheaded children with him grinned and waved.

“They know you,” she said. She thought again of the pair in the buggy she’d met earlier. They’d known the Morgan family, too.

“I know most people in the township. Morgans have been here for a long time.”

She let that revolve in her mind. If he knew the place that well, she couldn’t ignore his sense of what the community believed about this crime.

Farmland gave way abruptly to residential areas, a few strip malls, and then they were in Lancaster proper. Trey wove his way through a maze of narrow streets easily, still wearing a slight frown. No doubt he’d like to divorce himself from this proceeding entirely.

“The county jail is in the next block,” he said at last. “Anything else you need to know before you see Thomas?”

“Just one question.” She probably shouldn’t ask this, but she was going to, because when you were swimming in a strange ocean, it helped to know who the sharks were. “Given how you feel about the case, why did you want to come with me?”

The stone jaw returned with a vengeance. “I don’t want my mother involved in this at all. She’s too trusting, and she doesn’t have the slightest idea how serious it is. But if I can’t stop her, I’m at least going to make sure it’s handled appropriately.” He pulled into a parking space and stopped, turning to face her, crowding her in the small space. “You do one thing to turn this situation into a media circus or to manipulate my mother, and I’ll make you wish you’d never heard of the Morgan family.”

Well, that was clear enough. She had a client who was probably guilty, an employer who was acting on instinct and a very formidable man who was determined to dog her every step. And she hadn’t even met the client yet.

CHAPTER THREE

THE ROOM ALLOTTED TO lawyer/client meetings was typical of such places—cement-block walls, a high barred window and a bare wooden table bolted to the floor, flanked by two chairs. The wire-meshed window in the door allowed a police officer to peer in on the conference but hear nothing.

Trey Morgan had walked with her through the maze of corridors. He’d seemed to know, or at least been recognized by, most of the people they encountered, and he’d had an easy, laid-back manner for everyone but her. She’d half expected him to try to stay with her, not that she’d have allowed it, but he hadn’t, merely saying he’d be outside in the truck when she finished with Thomas.

Jessica tried not to fidget as she waited for the client, but she couldn’t forget that Thomas Esch had been accused of beating a woman to death. Any normal woman would feel a sliver of anxiety in this situation. The table was only about three feet wide. If he decided to come after her, how long would it take the guard to get to her?

Nonsense. She’d certainly confronted worse during the three years she’d spent as an assistant D.A., prosecuting domestic-abuse cases. She’d burned out on that, finally, unable to look at another battered woman, knowing chances were good that the woman would change her mind about prosecuting at the last minute and go right back to her abuser, maybe ending up dead.

There’d been value in the work, certainly, but nobody could do it forever. Her father had been relieved that she had come to her senses, as he put it. From the day she passed the bar, he’d been ready to set up a position for her with a good firm. There’d also been his unspoken opinion that she wasn’t tough enough to deal with criminal cases. Unspoken, maybe, but it had come through. Too bad he hadn’t had the son he’d always wanted to follow his footsteps.

The door creaked, startling Jessica into an involuntary flinch. It opened. Two burly guards dwarfed the boy they ushered into the room.

At her first glimpse of Thomas Esch, the apprehension slipped away. He was nothing more than a boy, with frightened blue eyes in a round face and blond hair that looked as if someone had put a bowl on his head and cut around it.

She stood, giving him what she hoped was a reassuring smile. “Hello, Thomas. I’m Jessica Langdon. I’m the lawyer Mrs. Morgan hired to defend you.” She held out her hand.

Thomas looked at the outstretched hand as if it held a trap and then cautiously shook it. His palm was hard with calluses, and her opinion pivoted again. He might look like a boy, but he was strong as a man.

Strong enough to beat a woman to death? Thomas was innocent until proved guilty in the eyes of the law, if not the community. He deserved that same assumption from his attorney.

She sat again, nodding to the chair opposite her. Still looking uncertain, Thomas slid onto the seat, moving back as if to get as far away from her as possible.

She waited until the door closed behind the guards, its slam resonating through the bare chamber. She focused on the client, keeping her mind away from the locked door.

“Thomas, do you understand that Mrs. Morgan wants to help you?”

He nodded, eyes still very wide, not blinking.

“Good. She’s helping you by retaining—hiring—me to represent you with the law.”

He looked down at his hands. “Mrs. Morgan is very kind.” He swallowed, Adam’s apple moving.

At least he could talk. His speech was formal, like that of the young pair in the buggy, and she remembered Trey’s doubts over her ability to represent the boy when she knew nothing of his culture.

That was ridiculous. The law was the law, no matter what the defendant’s background.

“Thomas, I want you to understand that anything you say to me is private. I can’t tell anyone, and you can trust me.”

His only answer was to stare at his hands—big hands, bony and strong. Strong enough to kill. Did he get any of this? She couldn’t be sure, and her frustration rose.

“Mrs. Morgan wants me to help you,” she tried again. “But I can only do that if you talk to me about what happened.”

He looked at her face then away again. “My parents—they would not want me to be involved with the law.”

Trey had said something like that, but she’d disregarded it. Apparently she should have paid more attention. “Mrs. Morgan spoke with them about hiring me, and they agreed. And I’m afraid it’s too late, anyway. You are already involved. The police believe you killed Cherry.”

There was no mistaking the emotion behind his expression now: fear. She expected a denial, but he was silent.

“Did you and Cherry see a lot of each other?”

He shrugged. “Sometimes at parties she would talk to me.”

“Were you dating? Did you go out just with her?”

He shook his head, the muscles in his face working.

“You were found alone with her. Did you go out together that night? Saturday night?”

Again he shook his head.

“Thomas, you were found with her. You must have gone out together, or how did you get there?”

“The other lawyer. He said not to talk to anyone. Not to answer questions.”

“He’s not representing you now. I am.”

His face took on a mulish expression. “Mr. Frost said not to talk to anyone. Not to answer questions. I know him.”

The implication was clear. Thomas didn’t know her. He didn’t trust her. Would it do any good if she could arrange for Mrs. Morgan to talk with him? She could imagine Trey’s reaction to that.

“Suppose I talk to Mr. Frost. If he tells you it’s all right, will you answer my questions?”

The big hands tightened briefly, then relaxed. He nodded.

She blew out a breath. Patience. Obviously that was what was required just now. Plenty of patience.

“All right, then. That’s what I’ll do. I’ll bring Mr. Frost to vouch for me.” She stood, repressing the instinct that wanted to demand answers, to move, to get on with the case. She could do nothing without her client’s trust.

He looked up at her, his eyes as wide and innocent as a child’s. “They took away my clothes.”

“I’m sorry. You will get them back, if…when you are released.”

“It is not proper. For an Amish man to be dressed this way.” He touched the front of the orange jumpsuit he wore. “Not proper,” he repeated.

“People who are being detained by the police are required to dress that way. I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do about it.”

“If you told them I need my clothes…”

“It wouldn’t do any good. They won’t change their minds.”

He just stared at her, eyes wide with expectation. She’d said he could trust her, but she couldn’t do the first thing he asked of her. Clearly he didn’t understand the situation he was in.

And just as clearly, she didn’t understand him. Trey had been right about her. She didn’t know enough to defend this boy.

TREY SAT IN THE TRUCK, waiting for the Langdon woman to come out of the red sandstone building that was the county jail. With those circular Norman towers, it looked more like a castle. Its builders had intended it to impress everyone who looked at it with the weight and majesty of the law. No doubt it intimidated a kid like Thomas.

With the radio on, he was treated to the views of the local station’s public, conveyed through the station’s call-in show. Opinion was running high—all of it against Thomas, it seemed. There were always those who harbored a prejudice against the Amish, just because they were different. Thomas’s arrest was feeding that feeling.

He switched the radio off. Neither Jessica Lang don nor his mother had a good grasp of the situation.

Trying to explain to his mother was useless. She wasn’t swayed by facts. She believed in Thomas, and she would do what she felt was right.

Jessica wasn’t in this for idealistic reasons, however. Worry tied his stomach in a knot. If Jessica thought this the sort of sensational case that would make her reputation, who knew what tactics she might resort to?

Was she that kind of person? His immediate impression had been of someone pretty hard-boiled, with her elegant clothing and her cool manner. But there had been a brief glimpse or two of someone not so easily categorized.

He didn’t think he liked that. He wanted to know where he was with people. And she’d challenged his opinion of what was best for his mother—he knew he didn’t like that. His mother could be devastated by this case, no matter how it turned out. Would Jessica even care?

His hands tightened on the steering wheel, and he deliberately forced himself to relax. Since Dad’s death, he’d been responsible—for his mother, for the family-owned businesses and rental properties, for all the people in the township who depended on the Morgan family. His thoughts flickered briefly to the office. He’d had to cancel a couple of appointments today, and no doubt there’d be more of that in coming days.

He couldn’t go to the office, deal with the day-to-day running of the family properties, handle the investments his grandfather and father had entrusted to his care and still deal with the ramifications of his mother’s interest in defending Thomas. So Morgan Enterprises would have to run along without him until this was settled.

In one way, he’d been preparing all his life for his role. It had governed his choice of summer jobs, his business major, even his Wharton MBA. He’d just never expected it to come so soon. He wasn’t ready. Maybe he’d never have been ready to lose his father, but to lose him that way…

Why, Dad? Why did you do it? How could the father I thought I knew do something like that?

He’d asked that question a thousand times. He’d never gotten an answer.